


Alone

by BakerStTardis (Sokashi)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Magic, Pre-Slash, Shapeshifters - Freeform, fae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:40:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sokashi/pseuds/BakerStTardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A magical realism AU. Pre-slash. Sherlock is one of the Fae. John is not. He seeks to fix that for several reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kestrel337](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/gifts).



> Constructive criticism and beta remarks are not welcome, thank you.
> 
> A gift for Kestrel337 in the Winterlock exchange. She asked for magical realism and happy endings. I didn't get all your prompts in (I'm sorry!) and this also wants to turn into a chaptered story now once I have more time to work on it.
> 
> Update 7/1- Ok, just because I get asked I'll let you know what's going on. This story was written, all I needed to do was type it up and edit it. I was in the process of it a little over a month ago when my ipad was stolen by a coworker. I have my work backed up (and eventually got my ipad back) but it took me a couple of weeks of searching to realize that I had been working on the story the night the ipad was stolen and had quickly shove the papers into the ipad case after my lunch. When it was stolen they threw the case and the story away. 
> 
> So in conclusion, I have no story for this at the moment. All my notes were with it and I had moved on to plotting something else and can't remember what I'd written. So- I still plan on posting a story for this. I have other, future parts of this series I'd like to write, but now I have to figure out what this story is again. It's not forgotten! I promise! I've just got to start over, just bare with me. It may turn out different (this first chapter has expanded on me already.) So this may be a good thing. I'm just sorry it's taken 6 months to get it done. Thank you for your patience!

In the end it wasn't a hard decision. John had no second thoughts as he rode the train out of London. Nor as he stood, jaw set, for the actual moment. With shaking hands he'd bandaged the wound and swallowed a couple of bottles of water but brushed off any offers to stay the night or to have someone there to see him through. "No. Thank you. Home. I'm going home." He said firmly and dozed on the train ride back. He felt- normal. A little anxious but more for what was waiting on him than what had happened. 

No one paid him any mind, not on the train nor on the street. It surprised him when he stumbled a little off the platform and he placed one hand on a nearby wall to try to determine the source. No pain, not really. A little tired maybe, but he could blame that on the nap. He'd planned on taking the tube home but was wondering if he should venture a taxi instead when a sleek black car pulled up and his phone pinged a text. He dug it out and with no little surprise found no messages from Sherlock and one from Mycroft.

Go home, Dr. Watson.  
And good luck.

John rolled his eyes but slid into the car a little gratefully. If Mycroft knew, then Sherlock did. He'd had little hope to keep his actions secret, but the silence on Sherlock's end wasn't encouraging. The partition was up between him and the driver, the back seat empty of anything but another bottle of water, still sealed. John eyed it suspiciously then shrugged and sipped it, surprised by how thirsty he was. Then he found himself with nothing to do but imagine what awaited him at Baker Street. Would Sherlock have vanished in a fit? Would he pout and ignore John for days? Would he tear John to pieces with his deductions like he tended to do every time he needed to lash out at anyone? John pressed the water bottle to his forehead and sighed because while it had been an easy decision for him to make, it had been HIS decision alone. Despite what any lanky fae detectives liked to think.

Then Baker Street was there, waiting on him. The thought of home felt like a beacon inside him. Warmth and wood and the smells of chemicals and tea. John found himself fumbling a little to get out, over eager or disoriented he couldn't tell. Then he was unlocking the door and climbing steps and it felt like years, not hours since he'd been gone and he just wanted inside-

 

Sherlock heard the car pull up. The familiar rhythm of John's steps, a little hurried. Sherlock threw himself into a flop on the couch, determined to show just how disapproving he was, but the door flew open before he was halfway settled and John surged in with a fierceness and determination he usually only showed when protecting Sherlock. Sherlock froze, wanting to have his pout, but found he couldn't move, couldn't look away from his friend as John stilled just inside. He looked...remarkably normal. Sherlock mentally scratched off a couple of possibilities from his list and narrowed his eyes as he decided a scathing tone would have to take place of a petulant couch flop.

"Well, what is it? You didn't back out. You were gone too long. Your clothes are wrinkled from the train ride." Sherlock surged to his feet and met John's eyes. Normal. Why were they normal? From the aggressiveness of his entrance Sherlock would've expected them wild or frightened or angry. This was just John. Staring at him in that familiar fondness, unfazed by his sharp tone.

John stared at him and laughed suddenly, gently, shaking his head a little. "Nothing. Nothing. Jussst..." He drug the word out a bit, as if searching himself, but his eyes didn't leave Sherlock's. "Home. Needed to be home." He said simply, as if that made any sense at all.

Sherlock scowled."If it was that important to you, then you shouldn't have left." His eyes raked over the shorter man. Same shirt and cardigan, wrinkled. The jeans were the same, no. There was a bandage on his thigh, under the cloth. The smell of train and smog were almost overwhelming anything else he could scent, but there was a trace of blood in the air. A sharp stab of worry struck Sherlock's gut but he squelched it. Wherever John had gone, whatever he'd done, the wound was part of it. Sherlock adjusted his mental list again. "Well?" He snapped finally, his eyes meeting John's. John, who hadn't looked away from his face, who still wore a trace of a smile, whose gaze was steady and maybe slightly unnerving. Sherlock shoved that feeling away too. "What did you do? What did you decide on?"

One eyebrow slid up and John's smile grew. "Can't deduce it?" He teased and it was so unlike John. The humor was sudden. Inappropriate and irrelevant to the tone of the conversation, to the way he'd appeared in the flat. Sherlock took a step back and stared harder, worry growing even as he growled.

"You're not yourself, John. Now what did you do?"

John giggled. "No. No, I'm not. I'm not myself and I might not be ever again!" He wheezed a bit, as if it was hilarious then stopped suddenly and straightened, eyes widening as he worked his jaw. "Oh, I see. I'm a little..." He paused as if searching for the word then wandered farther into the room, sentence forgotten, dropping his coat on the floor and shedding his shoes mid step. Sherlock scowled and shut the door firmly, flipping the lock, keeping on eye on John as the other man circled the room restlessly. Despite the bandage, he walked no different than normal. His skin looked a little flushed, but not damp or feverish. Then suddenly he spun to face Sherlock again and pointed one finger rather thunderously. "You!" He moved closer and Sherlock stepped warily to meet him. "You have to deduce it!" He demanded and stopped just shy of touching Sherlock then titled his head back to stare up at him and looked amused again. "I won't tell."

Sherlock sighed, wondering if he could just call someone else to take care of whatever his flatmate had done to himself. "It's not a game, John. I told you how dangerous this was. I told you the risks. Now what did you do? I need to know if I should call someone."

"Ooh, Sherlock Holmes, asking for help." He snorted then the humor suddenly fled and steady blue eyes met Sherlock's. "This wasn't your decision, Sherlock. I told you that."

"Yes, you say a lot of things, John." Sherlock said impatiently. "It's because you're an idiot."

Both brows slid up this time, patient and challenging as John lifted his chin. "You're so smart." He held out one hand, palm up in offer. "Deduce."

Impatient, Sherlock sighed and reached for his phone. Mycroft or Lestrade? Who'd be more useful? Mycroft would know who he'd seen. Lestrade would come and offer a hand. "John, we don't have time-"

John slapped the phone out of Sherlock's hand fast. Faster than even he, a Fae, could react. They both froze after, Sherlock in surprise, John still staring up at him in challenge. "No. Now we have more time. Now we have a chance at AGES." He said the word with weight and finality, eyes steady on Sherlock's. "Now tell me, Sherlock. What have I done?"

Sherlock didn't move, barely breathed. John had always been steady. From the moment they met he'd been stone and earth and everlasting to Sherlock. To all of him, even his Fae Senses. It had been a bit of a shock to find that John had been completely normal. No Fae blood in any traceable leinage. No wizards in the family. No affinity to any sort of magic at all. In a world full of magic beings of all races and forms, where any child could do a simple charm, where wars were equal parts magic and bullets, where nothing was wholly science or magic, John was just... John. Human. Male. Smart. Brave. Nothing outstanding. Nothing extraordinary but his curious ability to withstand- to understand Sherlock Holmes. Then he'd decided to change all that and the thought left Sherlock sick.

Sherlock took a deep breath, stepping back to stare at his friend but felt both were more for his own needs than to get a better look at him. The air felt choppy in his chest, like breathing in a wind. He blinked a couple of times to focus and mentally shoved all the emotion away. John. He needed to help John. 

John was still standing, still staring, as solid and hard as the stone he'd first made Sherlock think of. "You left London." Sherlock said suddenly, circling, just to break that gaze. "South I'd say. It was..." His eyes flicked over John quickly, taking in what he'd been ignoring before. "An old army friend. You went to him because he owed you. Less paperwork. No cost." Because if someone was born normal, sometimes they could change that. A willing sponsor, money sometimes, it all varied. "Nothing illegal or Mycroft would've stopped you instead of sending the car."

"Excellent. Full marks so far." John said, a trace of that humor back, the challenge still sitting in his jaw as he looked up at him. "But you're skipping the point."

Sherlock ignored the words, focused on the jeans. The bandage was thick, it would've been hard to pull jeans on over it. Even as he looked Sherlock thought he saw a trace of blood bleeding through the cloth. It had to hurt. It was large. Fresh. John showed no sign of discomfort."It wasn't a complicated ritual, you were back in London too fast. It took only a few minutes. Say hello, convince him that yes you were sure. The act itself, bandaging..." His words slowed as his mental list narrowed down and down to its conclusion. "The Brighton Pack." He breathed, the words slipping out in his shock even as John gave him that smirky grin. The one that said, yes, Sherlock was right and asked what he planned to do about it. "The Brighton Pack." Sherlock repeated and jerked back, the papers in the room tossing as his anger spiked. "Werewolves, John?" He roared. "What were you thinking?" Furious, he shoved past his friend then found himself in the middle of the room, nowhere to go, no idea what to do.

"You know what I was thinking. We discussed this." John said pointedly, his tone deadly. He turned to follow Sherlock but Sherlock refused to look at him, refused to meet his eyes. His brain was going and going, the thoughts rushing and he couldn't focus, couldn't stop. Couldn't breath! Sherlock shoved his hands into his hair and pulled, but it didn't help. "Sherlock." John said, utterly steady. "Sherlock look at me."

Sherlock shook his head wildly and the papers in the room billowed, swirled. This was worse, worse than he'd imagined. John was gone from him now. There, alive for ages, but gone!

 

John had expected many things, but not this. Sherlock had tantrums fairly often, the flying papers and tingling feeling of magic didn't even make John flinch anymore, but his friend was standing in the middle of the room, the air vibrating with magic and fury and...sorrow. That cut through whatever it was John was feeling, his worry focusing his mind in a way nothing had since he'd reached home. "Sherlock." He half sighed and strode forward, ignoring papers that pelted him and the buzzing the magic left on his skin. "Sherlock, stop. Talk to me. What's wrong? Sholto is a good man. He knew what he was doing. There was no risk of me bleeding out. At the worst, I could get an infection."

Sherlock whirled on him, features sharp, hair wild in the magic currents, his unearthly eyes pale and crystalline and more Fae than John had ever seen him before. "He's a werewolf!"

"Yeah..." John said, trying to focus, trying to get his brain to work. "Fae and werewolves get along fine, Sherlock. I've done my research. Their magics don't affect one another. You know other werewolves. You deal with them just like anyone else." John wracked his brain desperately praying he wasn't wrong. That there wasn't some secret he'd never been told. Maybe he should've talked to Sherlock first. Maybe he really WAS a complete idiot.

Sherlock took a heaving breath, curls whipping in the air as he shook his head. "Werewolves need packs!" He all but screamed at John. "They need packs to survive. You'll have to be in Brighton. Or find a pack here! You'll need other people, John, and-Why are you here? You have to be with your pack! Especially the first time." Sherlock started and then all the facts started spilling out, his eyes painfilled and scared and helpless. "You could die without your pack around you for the first change! And if you don't you could go rogue! A murder spree like that isn't any fun, John. It's not in the least bit entertaining! It just ends with you dead and Mycroft will do it. I know he will and-" Sherlock made a furious noise, fingers crooked as if he wanted to latch onto John and shake him. "What were you thinking, John? You were human and you were nice and we worked together and now you'll be-" He couldn't seem to get the word out, choked on it as he stared at John in horror and it was that noise that prodded John out of his shock. He surged forward, holding onto Sherlock tightly, arms gripping the fae's heaving back and not letting go even when Sherlock tried to twist away. "We have to get you back, John. Back to Brighton. You might have time..."

"No. Sherlock, no." John didn't let go and already he was stronger. Sherlock should've been able to throw him off easily but couldn't and John barely noticed as he held on until Sherlock stopped and eventually slumped against him.

Long, lanky arms settled on his shoulders, cautious and a bit awkward. John looked up and found tears, real tears on Sherlock's face. His eyes were red with it, his mouth trembled. John didn't give Sherlock time to say anything else, just looked up and held his eyes as he spoke. "Listen to me, Sherlock. Listen." He let a touch of command snap out and the effect was instantaneous. Sherlock's eyes sharpened, searching and a touch annoyed.

"What is it? What have I missed?" He demanded, not moving from John's arms but suddenly sounding more like his normal impatient, petulant self.

John let himself smile a little, just a touch, and watched the confusion wander across Sherlock's face. "That you're an idiot." John said and laughed a little when the confusion changed to indignation. "Yes, werewolves need pack, Sherlock. That's why I came home." Sherlock scowled, processing, and John's grin widened as he let it. "I needed to be home and yes, I wouldn't have survived elsewhere because I needed this. Baker Street. You. Why did you think I was so desperate a minute ago?" Sherlock blinked several times, seemingly frozen and the fluttering, billowing papers in the room froze too. He looked utterly, wonderfully, stunned and more beautiful than John had even seen. The arms he had around Sherlock suddenly felt more intimate than before and even a day ago he would've pulled away. Humans and fae were tragedies. Mortal lives were nothing but a breath to creatures so long lived and that was one of the easier hurdles cross species relationships faced. It wasn't something John had let himself think about before, this potential between them, and it wasn't something he'd calculated into his decision, at least not consciously. Now, though John stared at Sherlock's gaping, stunned mouth and wanted to kiss it, wanted to brush his lips along that shape, feel Sherlock's warmth, the spark of his magic. Only it wasn't the time for it.

John loosened his hold, eased back reluctantly as Sherlock stared and blinked and finally moved. "John?" It was his name, but shaken and soft. The John Sherlock said when he was out of his depth. 

John smiled and hoped it was his normal smile because things were going a bit fuzzy for him. "I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked then frowned, all at once looking more like himself. The papers settled to floors and tabletops again as his eyes narrowed. "Can a pack be just two people?"

John shrugged and pulled at the buttons on his cardigan. "There's always Mrs. Hudson."

"And Lestrade." Sherlock offered quickly. "Four would work."

John laughed. "Molly?" He offered, tossing his cardigan across his chair. He felt warm. Skin tight. "You like her."

"She's not unintelligent." Sherlock admitted, but his eyes didn't leave John. "Do you need them here?" He asked a little worriedly.

"I don't think so. I feel fine." John shook his head and tugged at his shirt. The buttons seemed complicated. Distantly he could tell things were off for him, thought processes weren't going like normal but he also felt....content. Happy. At home. Unconcerned. Not even frightened about what was about to happen. Sherlock was suddenly there, making an impatient noise as he took over the buttons on John's shirt. John grinned at the help. "I feel good."

Sherlock ignored the dopey grin. "Do I need to do anything?" He got John's shirt off and tossed it away. John's face was happy but almost sleepy. His focus was gone, eyes gone black and wide. "John." He said a little more urgently. "Did they tell you anything? Do you need anything else? Is there anything I should do?" He started on John's jeans but only got a smile and a giggle in response. "John!" He snapped and smacked his friend lightly on the cheek.

"What?" John's face did one of those funny looks it got. Overly animated, a stretch, a squint. "Ah. No. Not really. It'll just happen or it won't." He shrugged.

"Well, I think it's safe to say it will." Sherlock said and scowled. "Take your own pants off. I'll get a blanket."

John blew him a raspberry and pouted. "You're no fun."

The comment made Sherlock freeze and look back at his friend. Half naked, skin warm in the afternoon light, wide and surprisingly muscular beneath his jumpers. His blonde hair shone gold and he looked... Sherlock looked away again and swallowed. Surely John was delirious. Didn't know what he was saying. Sherlock brushed it away and started to head up to John's room for a blanket then had a second thought and went to grab his own. He came back with it opened and pointedly looking away from John's nudity as he offered it over. They'd been naked around each other before and neither were particularly self conscious, but this seemed like more somehow. Like John was unusually bare and it made Sherlock feel uncomfortable in ways he didn't have time to think about.

John took the blanket and hummed with pleasure, sinking to the floor with it. "Hm, nice. Smells like you."

"Yes. I thought it might." Sherlock said, standing awkwardly nearby. John curled up with it, gold skin against blue cloth, his eyes closed and smiling. "John." He took a breath, nervous again as he stared then sighed with exasperation. "John. Tell me what to do."

John hummed again, seeming half asleep. "Don't know. What do you want to do?"

Sherlock blinked a couple of times. He wanted...he stared at John. The blanket didn't fully cover him and he didn't seem to care. One strong thigh was bare and Sherlock kept staring at it, at the curve of his shoulder, at his happy, peaceful face. Blinking quickly, Sherlock shook himself. It wasn't the first time he couldn't look away from John but there'd been so much that happened that afternoon.He felt ragged and raw and open and looking at John made him...uneasy. Worried? Happy. Weird happy. Not like a crime scene. Something else. Something Sherlock didn't know how to identify.

John shifted a little restlessly, eyes trying to open but not succeeding. "Sherlock?" He mumbled.

Sherlock hesitated a step closer and leaned over him a bit. "I'm here." He said quickly. Awkward. Had he ever felt so awkward in his life?

"Good." John's body relaxed with relief, as if falling asleep. For a moment Sherlock thought that was it. John fell asleep and nothing else was going to happen. Then John twitched a little, tensed, but didn't wake. Sherlock started to lean close, maybe check his pulse rate then there it was. New magic. He could taste it. It was tea and warmth and midnight chases. It was summer wind and the threat of autumn storms. He breathed it in, rolled it on his tongue. Stretched his fingers out to feel it dance across his Senses. This was John. The magic swelled and there, there was the stone and earth, steel and fierce unbreaking that made up his friend. Loyalty. Bravery. If the words had colors or flavors it was in John's magic. It rose and filled the room, spilled over. Mrs. Hudson had to sense it, likely the whole street. It grew until it filled everything, every sense Sherlock had, until he was vibrating with it then it snapped and rushed away. He blinked a couple of times, filing the moment away in his mind then looked down at John and found a wolf. Sandy brown and gold. Larger than he'd expected, wider too. John was curled up, twisted in the blanket. Unconscious. Sherlock bit his lip wondering what to do. He certainly couldn't just stand there all night staring at his friend. He started to step away, grateful that John at least had been right in this. He was alive, he'd changed with only Sherlock as pack and that, that realization was going to have to be explored at a later date, but now Sherlock just felt tired and relieved. He started to head for the couch, close enough to keep an eye on his friend, when he noticed John was shivering, no- trembling. 

 

The first whimper sent Sherlock's nerves skittering with panic. John curled into a tighter ball and trembled hard, skin twitching beneath his fur as he whined. Sherlock reached for his phone to call someone, anyone who could help, but realized it was scattered across the room in pieces from John's blow earlier. He could get John's- he moved closer to John's chair just as he whined again, long and painful. Sherlock growled with frustration as he dug through John's discarded clothing. Why hadn't John told him what to look out for? Why hadn't he told him what he'd need? Sholto. He could call Sholto. As soon as the thought occurred, it repelled him and he dropped the phone with shaking fingers. John said he needed pack. That Sherlock was his pack and he hadn't asked for anyone else to be nearby...

Could Sherlock really be enough for him? He'd trusted that Sherlock could be all he'd need but facing this... Sherlock swallowed, torn between fear and anger. What did John expect him to do? Things like this were why he kept John around! Well, not the only reason but...

Jonh whined sharply, the sound echoing in the room, his body twisting in the blanket. His claws scrambled against bare wood in a clatter of noise that made Sherlock flinch but the fae inched closer. Surely John wouldn't have left him with something he couldn't handle. He was too smart for that. Whatever was needed he trusted Sherlock could figure out. Could give. Taking a breath, Sherlock crouched nearby, just out of reach and stared. His brain worked furiously, plunging through facts on werewolves, on seizures, on medical problems shapeshifters could have, on which one of them was the bigger idiot; John for trusting him with this or him for not calling for help earlier.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to focus. To THINK. It didn't look like pain. The twitching was superficial, not spasms. The whines were pain filled but more...lonely. They skittered across Sherlock's skin and tugged at his gut, but not in a way that repelled. In fact leaving John behind for even a second like this was unthinkable. Instead Sherlock slid closer and licked his lips. "John?" He said cautiously. It didn't really have an effect, but the claw clattering noise stopped and Sherlock gently untwisted the blanket. "John. I'm here." Was talking helping? That was ridiculous. Right? John made a high pitched noise and his muscles visibly jerked, compressing his chest, kicking his legs out. "No!" Sherlock snapped and dove to his side, both hands sinking into soft, thick fur. "No, John. I'm here. You're okay. You have to be okay. You said you'd be okay." 

John twitched again, but Sherlock held on, sank closer. "I'm here John. And you're fine. You have to be." He slid firm palms along limbs as if he could just brush it away. "You need pack, you told me so, and I'm here. It's okay. I'm here."  
John seemed to ease a bit. Encouraged, Sherlock shifted until he was laying alongside him, curling close. He drug his fingers through soft fur and kept his voice low and soothing. "See? It's already better. You're just being dramatic." He chided. The trembling slowed and the whining fell to whimpers then to soft snuffles. Sherlock didn't let go, but breathed easier. He smiled a little, buried the expression in a furry shoulder."I'm not going anywhere." He breathed out and shifted to a more comfortable position, felt John shift a little in response. "Take your time John. It's okay." He soothed, keeping up a low string of words and encouragement as the werewolf slowly relaxed. After a few minutes John fell into a true sleep. Sherlock counted his breaths, then his pulse, but still didn't let go. "You rest. I'm here." It had worked. John was okay. He'd be okay despite this stupid risk he'd taken. Sherlock slumped beside his friend and a smile flickered across his face. "I'm here, and when you wake up, well, like you said. We'll have AGES together." His smile grew at the thought. 

At the possibilities.


End file.
